


Swiftly, Sharply

by illumynare



Series: Wash/Carolina Series [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 21:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11541138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: Carolina is hurting, and Wash does what he can to help.





	Swiftly, Sharply

**Author's Note:**

> Red wanted to see Wash playing with Carolina's hair; Anne wanted to see Carolina being visibly messed-up. I LIVE TO PLEASE. (Huge thanks to Anne for letting me use her headcanon about Carolina getting cranky when she's hungry.)

"Wash! Wash, c'mon, wake up. It's an emergency."

Wash cracks an eye open and sees Tucker leaning over him. "Unless you're dying, I don't care. If you are dying, go see Grey."

He thinks he's earned the right to be a little testy. One week on patrol with none of his own team, just a squabbling group of three Feds and four Rebels, and the most experienced soldier among them was Palomo. When Wash got back, he handed in his report to Kimball and Doyle, then staggered straight to bed.

"It's Carolina," says Tucker. "She's having one of her moods."

"So get her something to eat," says Wash.

Carolina gets . . . angry, when her blood sugar is low. She's also terrible at remembering to eat, and the speed mod just makes her crash even faster. Back in Project Freelancer, either York or Maine would remind her to eat before it got too bad. Now Epsilon usually takes care of it, but sometimes he isn't there with her when she crashes, and then Wash or Tucker has to take over.

"No, man, she's been weird all week. Three days ago she had a fight with Church and he's been sulking in one of the supercomputers ever since. This morning Caboose got her to eat a whole bag of trail mix, and she's _still_ mad."

Well, that does sound concerning. Wash heaves a sigh and sits up.

Immediately Tucker sticks a mug of coffee under his nose. Wash inhales the warm scent, and decides that maybe he doesn't hate him after all. He grasps the mug and drinks greedily.

Tucker doesn't say anything. Sometimes, he's a pretty good friend.

"Okay," says Wash, putting down the empty mug. "Where is she?"

"Last I saw? Down in the west training room." Tucker claps a hand on his shoulder. "Good luck."

Wash is nervous as he makes his way to the training room. He hasn't really talked to Carolina since two weeks ago, when—

Just thinking about it makes his face heat. Wash isn't sure whether he's more embarrassed about Carolina noticing he was so exhausted, or about the way he moaned into her lap when her fingers stroked the base of his skull.

It's not like anything _happened._ Certainly nothing inappropriate. If Wash had been dumb enough to tell Tucker about the incident, he definitely would have heard a lot of jokes about _I can't believe you didn't even make it to first base, man._

It was just—

Sometimes, Wash looks at Carolina and still feels like she's the leader of Alpha Squad and he's just the rookie.

He hears Carolina first: a steady thumping, punctuated by rough grunts. Then he sees her. She's out of armor, hands wrapped, pounding away at the punching bag.

Neither of them loves being unarmored. But Wash has practiced this way before too. Sometimes, the raw bite of his knuckles on the punching bag is all that keeps the memories back. He thinks that maybe Carolina is looking for the same sort of refuge.

Because she looks awful. There are dark circles under her eyes; her red hair hangs limp and greasy. This isn't a single bad day or bad night, Wash realizes. This is night after sleepless night, day after restless day, memories too loud and fears too sharp— _this is your last chance and you won't make it last, you're going to fail and you're going to lose them—_

He knows. He's been there too.

The last time he started to spiral, Carolina pulled him back.

"Hey, boss," he says. 

She jerks to a stop. Turns a glare on him. He can see why Tucker was scared.

"Want to spar?" he asks. 

For a second she keeps glaring; then she sighs and relaxes a little. "All right," she says, and starts toward him, hands rolling back into fists.

"Uh. I'll just. Take off my armor," Wash says quickly. He's kind of glad that she's so eager; having to strip this fast keeps him from thinking too much about the last time he stripped in front of her—

Damn. He's blushing again. And his helmet is already off.

But it doesn't matter how embarrassed Wash feels. Right now, Carolina needs him.

He pulls off his leg pieces and stands up. 

"Ready?" asks Carolina, and she's not smiling, but there's a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

Wash raises his hands. "Yeah, boss."

Her first strike nearly knocks him out. Wash barely dodges it in time—her knuckles graze his skull, and he stumbles back. He saves himself from the next blow only by slamming his knee into her gut.

But as hard as Carolina hits him, there's a sloppiness to her attacks that usually isn't there. Wash starts to wonder if he'll actually win this spar.

Then she catches him and drops him with a flawless throw. Wash's back slams into the ground, and he stares up breathlessly as she twists his arm into a joint-lock—

His back arches, and tears start in his eyes, from pain but also from _wonder,_ because the realization crashes over him again that is Carolina. Leader of Alpha Squad and Number One on the leaderboard. 

And Wash, he still can't believe that he's allowed to spar with her. Can't believe that he's finally friends with her, that she's looked at him and said, _We're all that's left—_

He thrashes wildly, and kicks her feet out from under her. Carolina twists as she falls, lands on top of him, and then they're grappling.

Wash is good at close-range, always has been, and he's even better at it out of armor. He used to get even York pinned and bleeding sometimes. But though Carolina is sloppy today, she's also faster and fiercer than when they last sparred. She gets him on his back and straddles him, and Wash is distracted for a half-second as he thinks of what Tucker would say about this. Then her hands find Wash's throat, and he taps out instantly.

Carolina pulls her hands back, but only to rest them on his shoulders. For a few seconds they're both still, panting for breath.

He's always known Carolina was beautiful, but now he notices it all over again: the glisten of sweat on her cheekbones, the lines of the tendons in her neck, the slight curve of her mouth.

Wash finds himself smiling too. He's missed this, the release of sparring with somebody he isn't training. The thrill of adrenaline fading to the glow of endorphins, without needing to worry about whether the other person has leaned enough, is ready for battle, is going to survive.

Carolina has always, miraculously, survived.

"You're getting soft, Wash," she says.

"You're tired," he says, and instantly regrets it as her smile fades.

She rolls off him, and Wash sits up, facing her.

"I . . . keep dreaming about them," she says, her voice low and rough. "The other Freelancers. I keep thinking . . . I could have saved them."

"Carolina," says Wash. "I—"

He wants to say, _I dream about them too sometimes. I'm afraid I can't protect my new family too sometimes._

But he's not sure he has the right. The Freelancers were never _his_ the way they were Carolina's. He blames them as much as he blames himself. And no matter how much his memories haunt him . . . at least half of those memories aren't his. He can wake from his nightmares and tell himself they weren't real.

"I'm sorry," he says. 

Carolina huffs out a breath and says nothing. The silence hangs between them, and Wash—

He's remembering two weeks ago, when she comforted him. And he doesn't feel like he has the right to do the same. She's _Carolina._ He's just the rookie.

But they're the only ones left. She said it herself.

Slowly, reverently, he lifts a hand and strokes it through her hair.

He half-expects her to push him away. But Carolina just closes her eyes, and sighs—he can feel her breath on his face—

And Wash knows this, the way her brows are relaxing, stress unspooling from her face. He knows what she's starting to feel: that strange sensation of _you're not alone, you're safe, we're all safe here._

He felt it his second day on Blue Team, when Caboose said, _Hey, Church,_ and crushed him into the couch. He felt it two weeks ago, when Carolina pulled his head into her lap and stroked his hair.

More than anything, he wants to give that feeling back to her.

So he dares to touch her again. To run his fingers through the limp, sweaty locks of hair—he doesn't think she's washed it in a week at least. He can see gray and brown at her usually perfect roots, and he wonders how long she's been hurting like this.

Carolina sighs again, and then leans forward, head thumping into his chest. 

The soft impact sends an electric shock through his body. Wash stares down at the pale arc of her neck, where the strands of hair have parted to reveal the gleaming metal of her implants. He doesn't know what's supposed to happen next.

But Carolina, as always, is sure. Even in relaxation, she takes possession of him, stretching herself out and laying her head in his lap like a queen occupying her throne.

Wash stares, hardly breathing, until she is still. And then—

Gently, gently, he runs his fingers through her hair again. He traces the outline of her ear, caresses the soft curve of her earlobe. She hums in contentment, and Wash winds his fingers deep into her hair. He strokes the base of her skull. 

He feels her sigh against his knee, and he watches her breathing settle into the rhythm of sleep.

There's a scar running from her chin to her lip. Wash traces it with his fingertips, so lightly he barely feels the rough line of the scar, the softness where it fades into her lip—then he snatches his hand away.

His face is very hot. He can hear his heart beating very fast,pumping the blood through all his body.

_Oh,_ he thinks.

Carolina sleeps in his lap, scarred and worn and greasy—he can smell her sour, stale sweat—and she looks like a goddess at rest.

_Oh, hell,_ he thinks. _I'm in trouble._


End file.
